Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 02 - Blood and Honor

Although he had been in the intelligence and counterintelligence business long enough to know that nothing should surprise him, he was nevertheless surprised that the sweep for listening devices of the room where Minister of War Teniente General Pedro P. Ramirez was about to take dinner with el General Arturo Rawson had found nothing. That was the meaning of the blank sheet of paper in the envelope at the Centro Naval. And he was equally surprised that the Federal Police were showing no interest in the meeting itself—at least none he could detect. For it was Ramirez's responsibility to order the coup; and if the coup succeeded—now that Frade was dead—Rawson was likely to be the next Presidente of the Argentine republic.

It occurred to Mart?n that perhaps the meeting had been called off, and for some reason this had not been brought to his attention. Or it could be that the Federal Police had not been able to place a microphone in the building. Getting caught doing so would have been very embarrassing. If he were the Federal Police official charged with watching General Ramirez he would be very careful not to anger him: the coup d’?tat might succeed.

With all that in mind, he decided to wait until Ramirez and Rawson actually appeared. And so he read La Nation, and glanced frequently across the street at the Circulo Militar.

At 2130, Teniente General Pedro P. Ramirez arrived in his official car before the ornate gates of the Circulo Militar, seconds after the private 1940 Packard 220 sedan of General Rawson.

General Ramirez, seated in the rear of the Mercedes with his aide-de-camp, Mayor Pedro V. Querro, graciously signaled Rawson's chauffeur to precede him through the gates of the imposing mansion. This caused General Ramirez's chauffeur—who was not used to giving way to other vehicles—to suddenly and heavily apply his brakes.

Mart?n almost laughed out loud as Mayor Querro, a tiny, immaculate, intense man with a pencil-line mustache, a look of outrage on his face, abruptly slid off the slippery dark red leather seat onto the floor. General Ramirez fared better; he managed to keep his seat by bracing himself against the back of the front seat. Shaking his head in amused disbelief, Mart?n neatly refolded his La Nation and, carrying the Harrod's paper sack containing the unneeded socks, started back for Avenida Florida and the Centro Naval.

[THREE]

Neither General Rawson nor his chauffeur was aware of General Ramirez's and Mayor Querro's difficulty retaining their seats and their dignity. The chauffeur dropped Rawson off at the entrance, then drove into the mansion's interior courtyard to park the Packard.

Rawson, a good-looking, silver-haired man in his fifties, with a precisely trimmed mustache, was wearing a well-cut, somewhat somber dark-blue business suit. He stood beside the entrance and waited for Ramirez and Querro, who were in uniform—green tunics with Sam Browne belts, pink riding breeches and highly polished riding boots. Except for their leather-brimmed caps, with their stiff, gilt-encrusted oversize crowns, Ramirez and Querro looked not unlike U.S. Army cavalry officers.

"Arturo," General Ramirez greeted him, touching his arm affectionately.

"Mi General," Rawson replied, nodding at Mayor Querro.

"You are getting a little chubby," Ramirez said. "We will have to find something useful for you to do, take some of that off."

"I am, with a long list of exceptions, entirely at the General's service," Rawson said.

Ramirez laughed, and the three passed through doors held open for them by neatly uniformed porters.

Inside the building, at the foot of a curving flight of marble stairs, another porter (like most of the Circulo Militar's employees, a retired Army sergeant) stood by the Register in which members of the Circulo Militar were supposed to sign their names on their arrival.

Aware that neither General Ramirez nor General Rawson ever complied with that regulation—or with any other they found inconvenient—and that the Membership Committee would not say anything about their breach of that rule—or of any other rule—the porter inscribed their names in the Register.

"Where have you put el General?" Mayor Querro asked, somewhat arrogantly, as Ramirez started up the stairs.

"In Two-B, mi Mayor," the porter said.

"With a little bit of luck, there will not be a gaggle of women next to us," Rawson said.

"With a little bit of luck, perhaps there will be," Ramirez said. "Women in groups not only don't listen to each other, but to anyone else, either."

Rawson laughed, as he was expected to, and wondered if Ramirez was getting a little nervous.

Why not? When one is plotting a coup d’?tat, and the details of that operation may soon be on the desk of the man you hope to depose, one may be excused for being a little nervous.

Two-B, on the second floor of the mansion, was a small private dining room, with a table capable of comfortably seating ten guests. Four places had been set, with an impressive display of silver and crystal, at opposite ends of the table. A sideboard was loaded with bottles of whiskey, half a dozen kinds of wine, two silver wine coolers, and appropriate glasses.

Capitan Lauffer, who had been inspecting the wine, came to attention when the two general officers entered the room, as did two waiters in brief white jackets.

"Here you are, Roberto," Rawson said. "I think that when it's my time to pass through the pearly gates, you'll have gotten ahead of me there, too, and will be holding them open for me."

"Mi General," Lauffer said, and bowed his head toward General Ramirez.

"How are you, Lauffer?" he asked, smiling. He then turned to one of the waiters and pointed: "And put everyone at one end of the table," he ordered. "I don't want to have to shout at my guests."

Both waiters quickly moved to obey.

Rawson looked around the room, then put his hand to his ear and looked questioningly at Lauffer.

"El Coronel Martin, Sir, tells me the room is clean. He also suggested discretion, Sir."

Rawson nodded, satisfied that the room was indeed free of listening devices. He knew Teniente Coronel Mart?n to be a very knowledgeable, and reliable, security officer.

"Did he find anything?" Mayor Querro wondered aloud.

"I think he would have said something, Sir," Lauffer said.

"What else did he have to say?" Rawson asked.

Ramirez waved his hand in a gesture signaling Lauffer that he should not answer in the presence of the waiters. Lauffer nodded his understanding.

Querro walked to the sideboard, waited until he had Ramirez’s attention, and then pointed at a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label scotch.

"If that's champagne, I'd rather have that," Ramirez said, indicating one of the coolers with his hand.

One of the waiters moved quickly to take a bottle of champagne from the cooler and started to peel off the metallic wrapping at the neck.

"I think that's what I'd better do, too," Rawson said. "What for you, Lauffer?"

"Nothing, Sir. Thank you."

"Oh, have a glass of wine," Ramirez said. It was an order, and Lauffer understood it.

"Thank you very much, Sir," he said.

The champagne was poured and offered on a tray by one of the waiters.

"Thank you," General Ramirez said, taking a glass, and then adding, "Please leave us now."

He took his glass and walked to the ceiling-high French doors that overlooked Plaza San Mart?n and its ancient, massive Gomero trees.

Rawson sipped his champagne and waited for Ramirez to turn to him. When he did not, he walked to the window and stood beside him.

San Martin, Belgrano, and Pueyrred?n,( Jose de San Mart?n, "The Great Liberator" Manuel Belgrano, and J. M. de Pueyrred?n are revered as the fathers of Argentina.) Ramirez thought, stood a hundred and thirty years ago, looking at those very same trees, looking out onto the River Plate, and deciding to pay the price, whatever it was, to see Argentina free and democratic. Is that what we're doing ? Or will we be just one more junta in a long line of juntas who decided they were the salvation of Argentina? And were, more often than not, wrong.